The Joker in Repose
by javierboredem
Summary: Even madmen have family. This story is about how difficult it is being related to Gotham's Clown Prince, especially when a certain playboy billionaire seems determined to drive you crazy. Batman/OC, no Jokermance.
1. Chapter 1

As Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or The Joker or anything else beside my own characters :(

A/N: This is my first stab (no pun intended!) at writing The Joker or anything else Batman related...couldn't get this idea out of my head after seeing the movie, so I figured I'd see where it went. Enjoy and please review! I love feedback and constructive criticism!

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Chapter 1

"In the beginning, only two things existed. Me and the darkness. Perhaps the world was already there under my feet and perhaps it wasn't; no one knows. Every day I woke up and I paced. I paced up and down, back and forth, around in more circles than anyone could've counted if numbers had existed yet, and when I got tired I fell down and slept until I woke to start pacing again. But no matter where I went, everything looked the same and after a while I was _awfully_ bored. Finally, just as I thought that I would lose my mind if I didn't think of something, anything to do, a little bird flew by and whispered a rumor in my ear about a man who lived in an enormous dark house up an enormous dark hill in a vast dark land far away. In the very middle of his house, he kept a bright, shiny treasure more valuable than anything else in the universe. I hopped on one foot, then I hopped on the other, and I did a little dance of glee, for I had found the perfect way ease the boredom and the darkness. I was going to hunt down this man and fight him until he cried and begged for mercy and gave me his treasure, and then instead of killing him - "

"That part's not in the book," I whispered disapprovingly,"And, anyway, he's asleep."

I saw Jack's shoulders tighten perceptibly at the sound of my voice and then relax as he realized it was only me. Closing _The Adventures of Raven, The Trickster God_, he turned towards me partially so that his silhouette was illuminated by the bedside lamp. "You really shouldn't eavesdrop, it's terribly rude," he reproved me, although his voice was softer than usual and I thought I heard a bit of reluctance in it. Standing with a little flourish and straightening the cuffs of a garish purple suit that had seen better days, he followed me out of the room and closed the door quietly.

This was always the most awkward part of the visits, as neither of us really had any idea how to behave around each other anymore. He, afraid that he'd shown too much of his pale underbelly, was always on the offensive, while I, unable to think of appropriate small talk ("So, Jack, how's mass murder treating you these days?) and also afraid that he might slit my throat on a whim, was most decidedly on the defensive. Tonight was no different.

As soon as the door clicked shut, he trailed a hand over my newly painted walls, leaving five long, filthy smudges. "I can't say I like what you've, uh, done with the place, Ceeeeeelia," He said, smirking at me disdainfully."Beige is just so horribly boring."

"Ecru," I corrected, without thinking.

"What's that?" He hissed, sliding a hand into his pocket and toying with something that sounded much the way I imagined a switchblade being opened would.

"The walls, the color, it's not..." Flustered, I threw up my hands. It was the end of a long day and I was not up to arguing the fine points of interior decorating with an armed criminal. "Forget it, Jack. They're beige."

"I get the distinct impression, Ceeelia, that you're humoring me. And I HATE being humored," he snapped. Thankfully, he let it be as he followed me downstairs. Even so, the ominous weight of his silence pressed up against my bare neck like a knife.

In the living room, he clapped his hands together and announced, "I'm just going to go, hm, freshen up. _You_ know, Ceel, put on my face_._" Accompanying the declaration was a sinister wink and a quick double tap to the scar on the right side of his mouth. Just as quickly he had disappeared into the guest bathroom, and I could hear him cackling and humming as he applied his make up. My mouth quirked a little as I recalled that my late mother had also referred to doing her make up as putting on her face. I wondered what she would think of her erstwhile son-in-law doing the same in a bathroom in her house. Most likely she was rolling in her grave.

The Joker reappeared in his full, grease-painted glory, looking as fresh as I suppose super villains ever really do. I noticed that one of the calla lilies from the eighty dollar flower arrangement in the hall was now pinned to his lapel, and silently cursed him. Seeing my eyes on it, he gave me his Cheshire trademark. "So, aw-fully thoughtful of you to leave these out. It's the little things that keep me coming back home, sis." His tongue darted out and swept his lips quickly, and he turned to check his reflection in a wall mirror. What he saw there seemed to please him, and he spent a few minutes leering at himself from different angles. Finally satisfied, or perhaps just thoroughly repelled, he turned back to me.

"I'd ask for a goodnight kiss, Ceecee, but I can tell you're wearing lipstick and I wouldn't want any to get on me!" This rather weak quip sent him into a spasm of giggles, and I took advantage of his distraction to discreetly check my watch. Three hours. He had been here, wasting my time, for three hours. I set my jaw and checked my watch less discreetly. Catching my glare, Jack started in again.

"Turn that frown upside down, sis, or else I'll just have to do it for you, just like someone did for me," he admonished jovially. Creeping closer to me, he brought his index fingers to the corners of my mouth and pushed harshly upwards. I was terrified, but it was a familiar, tired terror that didn't even move me to pull away. Jack seemed about to speak, when, suddenly, his demeanor changed entirely and he jerked away from me as if I, not he, were the madman. "But you already know that particular story, don't you dearest sister?" He hissed.

Moving towards the window, he regarded me from a safer distance. For the briefest of moments, his face was still and composed. The expression, combined with a trick of shadows, made him appear so strongly like the man he had once been that I had to bite my lip to keep from saying anything. Then the Joker was back, leaping up onto the sill and tipping his hat. "I'll see myself out," he shrieked, then disappeared into the darkness so quickly I couldn't tell which way he'd gone. Knowing that he would never see it, I gave a tiny wave and let my lips form a silent "goodnight."

Finally alone in the haven of my living room, I pressed my hands to my face and released a breath I hadn't been aware I'd been holding. I stood there for a long time, eyes squeezed shut, chipping away at the built up tension with each exhale. When, at last, I felt capable of opening my eyes and taking in my surroundings, I found myself standing in the middle of an unfinished Lego castle. The castle was the epicenter of an impressive mess of toys that sprawled out across the generally impeccable landscape of my living room. Topping it all off was a half eaten smorgasbord of pop tarts and peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches sticking to the surface of the leather sofa, accompanied by a white linen throw soaked in what appeared to be grape juice. Neither Jack or Jackson had eaten their crusts.

I tidied up the worst of the mess and then retreated to my bedroom. As I got ready for bed, I found my eyes lingering on the cluster of family photographs mounted on the wall. I slid a certain one off its hook the way I always did on nights like this, when Jack had been here. It was a wedding photograph, picturing a bride and groom so radiant they looked like a magazine ad. My younger sister, Eleanor, on the right, had her head thrown back in laughter, causing my great grandmother's veil to tilt slightly on top of her dark, glossy curls. She had always been the beautiful sister, everybody's favorite, including my own. Standing next to her was her new husband, no doubt the cause of her levity, sporting a grin that crinkled up his entire face as he offered her a forkful of cake. He looked handsome and natural in his tuxedo, although it was probable he'd never worn one before in his life. On the day that Ellie married Jack, they had been happy.

As I fell asleep I fantasized about a world where that happiness had lasted.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: After writing this, I guess it's safe to say that this is going the Batman/OC route :) Thanks so much to everyone who took a look at Chapter 1, and a special thanks to DragonHeart for the sweet review! I'm still not 100 sure where this is going, but sometimes that's more fun. Enjoy Chapter 2!

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Chapter 2

I woke early the next morning with the same vague feeling of panic that I had woken with every morning since Jack had been released from Arkham. I opened my eyes, sat up, and ran to Jackson's room in a single fluid motion. He was safe and still asleep, his golden brown curls fanned across the pillow. He had his father's hair, I reflected sourly. This thought prompted me to lean in closer to inspect it, as if I might find the early manifestations of evil crawling like lice on his head. All I found was a tiny bit of jelly. Relieved, I leaned my head against his, grateful that my nightmares had not come true today.

The "joint-custody" agreement that the Joker and I currently enjoyed had not always been in effect. For the first five years of Jackson's life, he had been entirely mine. Jack had shown up at my house in the middle of the night with his face sliced up and so hideously swollen I didn't recognize him. In hindsight it seems ironic that I was relieved it was him and not a thief or a rapist who had come calling. He was soaked through with what I thought at first was rain; when he stepped inside, I realized it was blood. He pulled the infant out of a bundle of relatively clean rags in the crook of his arm and handed him to me. His face contorted as he tried to tell me something and I ran to get a pen and paper.

When I returned, he was leaning against the wall, half delirious and talking to himself. I shook him, softly at first and then harder when he didn't respond. I was sobbing and shaking, screaming his name, convinced he was going to die right there in my foyer. But when his eyes finally rolled up towards mine, I wished they hadn't. All traces of my sister's soft spoken husband had vanished from his face, and his eyes were flat and unnatural, like those of a rabid dog I'd once seen as a little girl. For the first time, his swollen tongue swept out across his bloody lips and, for the first time, he started to laugh that laugh. Then he grabbed the pen and paper from my hand and scrawled a note: _He's yours. Don't look for me._ As I read it, he scrambled out the door, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Later I imagined that I'd had a chance to stop him. If I'd only called the hospital or the police...On darker days I even wished I'd put him down, the way you ought a wounded animal. Instead, I obeyed his wishes and closed the door, turning my attention towards the baby.

In a fit of sentimentality, I named him Jackson. At first, I regarded him as compensation; he was the silver lining of Ellie's death, the only reason I got out of bed in the morning for months after her funeral. By the time he was two, I was incapable of imagining him as anything except my own. Then the Arkham prison break happened, and once again I woke up to a knock on my door in the middle of the night.

Just as I began to recall the night the Joker had reappeared on my doorstep, Jackson stirred. He yawned and looked at me kneeling beside his bed with confusion. "What are you doing mommy? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I reassured him, adding a kiss on the forehead for good measure.

He smiled and squinted at me, looking younger than his six years. "Uncle Jack says you're too serious, Mommy."

I bit my tongue to prevent a torrent of foul language, and patiently asked him, "What did I say about listening to Uncle Jack?"

"Never, ever listen to Uncle Jack!"

"That's right. Never, ever, ever."

He put his arms around my neck and I lifted him out of bed. "I don't think you're too serious, Mommy. Don't worry," he whispered sweetly.

"Good," I answered, "Because if you thought I was too serious, I probably wouldn't let you make waffles before Elizabeth gets here."

And with that, all thoughts of the Joker were temporarily banished as Jackson and I made breakfast. His nanny appeared promptly at eight to take him to school, and I handed him off with only a brief pang of worry.

I jumped in the shower and then proceeded to lounge around in my robe reading a gossip rag until my phone rang around noon.

"Celia." It was my friend Victoria. Her tone intimated that she knew I had forgotten about our lunch date and was still sitting at home in a bathrobe.

"Yes?"

"Get dressed and come to Gotham Park right now. Hurry." She paused, then added in a theatrical whisper, "_He's _here."

I knew exactly who she meant and wasn't nearly as impressed. "Tori, he's been sitting at the Gotham Park bar for the past five weeks. I don't think another ten minutes is going to matter."

"Just hurry, Celia!" There was an odd muffled shriek, then she whispered,"Oh my god, I have to go, he's coming over here!" And the line went dead, leaving no room for argument.

* * *

Twenty minutes and a harrowing car ride through downtown later, I showed up at the Gotham Park Club dressed in a suitably gaudy designer get up and handed my keys over to the valet. The Gotham Park Club was one of the most pretentious locales in the city, and was once famously described as a "daytime kennel for trophy wives" by a certain, now unemployed, reporter. There was a lot of truth in the statement; the opulent building was a monument to excess and there wasn't an item on the lunch menu less expensive than a week's worth of groceries. My older brother, a dower man obsessed with social status, maintained our family membership.

Striding purposefully up the steps, I evaded the lazy photographers hanging around outside hoping to snap a shot of someone important. Although I certainly didn't count, my pride didn't want them to have the chance to find that out. In the lobby, the butler greeted me by name. "Ms. Crandall. Ms. Harford is awaiting your arrival in the blue lounge." He knew better than to ask if I needed an escort.

I thanked him and, steeling myself, walked into the lion's den. Victoria was sitting at a table in the corner sipping a martini and talking on the phone. I noticed immediately that the table had a strategic view of the bar. I made my way over and greeted her with a kiss on either cheek.

"Finally, Cee! What took you so long?" She demanded.

"Great to see you too."

She ignored my comment and informed me absently, "I already ordered you a drink. More importantly, doesn't he look like an absolute Adonis in that suit?"

The object of her attention was seated at the bar, peering contemplatively into a sipping glass of whiskey. He did look handsome, but of course, "He's Bruce Wayne, Tori. He always looks like that."

She shook her head and proceeded to recount how he had come over to the table to say hello to her. "He knows my name, Cee. He looked into my eyes. I thought I was going to faint."

"I wouldn't read too much into it, Tori, he knows everyone's name. He's a professional schmooze and it's good business."

My warning clearly fell on deaf ears, as she stood and declared, "I'm going to go order us another round."

It wasn't that I thought Bruce Wayne wouldn't sleep with Tori; she was stunningly attractive, a marvel of modern cosmetic surgery. But from what I'd heard commitment wasn't his thing, whereas Tori fell in love with everyone she kissed. I didn't want to clean up her heart after he broke it.

At the bar I saw her strike up a conversation with him as she ordered. She gestured at our table, leaning forward to give him a suggestive view of her decolletage. He looked away politely in the direction of our table, meeting my eyes for a moment in the process and, without thinking, I directed a lewd eyebrow waggle at him. I would have sworn I saw him swallow a laugh as he turned back to Tori. Before I knew it, she was waving me over to the bar.

"Bruce, you remember Cecilia Crandall, chair of the Crandall Trust?" Tori said by way of introduction. I cringed as she trotted out my credentials, but he seemed to take the process for granted.

"Of course," he said in a startlingly deep voice. I realized I hadn't spoken to him since he'd gone through puberty. "We went to grade school together."

I qualified his statement, reminding him that I'd been a class or three below him. He shrugged off the correction with a warm smile that showcased a subtle set of dimples. "I remember you. You were always in trouble."

I laughed and the three of us proceeded to chat for a while about trivial things, though I remained mostly silent hoping to direct his attention towards Tori. After a while, two other acquaintances of ours came up to the bar and a flurry of greetings was exchanged.

"Have you seen the paper today, Celia?" Asked Lydia Rochester. Lydia and I had a long history of dislike for one another that we kept hidden beneath a veneer of civility. I knew right away she was baiting me.

"No," I said, trying to prevent a scene from ruining the afternoon, "You caught me, I've been reading _Gotham Gossip_ all morning." I got a few laughs but didn't deter Lydia.

"That terrorist struck again," she said in a dramatic voice, "Right in your neighborhood. Don't you worry about Jackson? That's Celia's six year old," she added in an aside to Wayne, most likely in a misguided attempt to make me sound old.

"I'm aware," he said, and I was happy to hear that his tone was somewhat cold.

"I'm not exactly sure what "terrorist" you're referring to, Lydia," I said, although everyone knew she was referring to the Batman and everyone, with the possible exception of Bruce Wayne, had heard us have this argument before.

"Don't play dumb, Celia, you know I mean Batman. He's out there, skulking around in the shadows just waiting to bring his vigilante justice down on all of us."

I laughed a little at her words, which were clearly lifted from some alarmist article. "Sounds like you've been reading something worse than Gotham Gossip. Last I heard Batman was a hero who fought crime and saved lives."

Fuming at my condescension, she snapped, "Last I heard he murdered Harvey Dent!"

"So everyone says." I said coolly. "But I haven't heard a single credible explanation as to why or how, and until I do I'm sticking with what rational observation tells me."

"Rational?" She scoffed. "You of all people can't claim to be rational considering your sister..." She trailed off abruptly as she realized what she'd said, and, more importantly, who she'd said it in front of. I knew Wayne had been listening as I heard him excuse himself suddenly. A heavy silence fell over the lounge.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Hello everyone! Very sorry for the long update time on this story...I was on vacation and didn't have access to a computer. But don't worry! The latest installment is a bit longer and has a bit of everything**** (I also made an edit or two to Chapter 2, but nothing major at all).****...please enjoy and review if you have a chance!  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Dexter or anything else except my original character.**

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Lydia's hand flew to her mouth as she realized that casually bringing up brutally murdered family members in front of a man who had witnessed his parents' deaths was a major faux pas. Everyone within earshot stopped pretending not to eavesdrop and gave us their full attention. Gossip was a popular sport amongst Gotham's wealthy elite and the Gotham Park Club was infamous for being the starting point of all the best rumors. Depending on what happened next, my name might be on the lips of my peers for weeks to come; not a bright prospect, considering that hardly any of them had ever uttered a kind word in their lives. Just imagining the look on my image-obsessed older brother's face if word of my being involved in a very public argument got back to him made me cringe. Ever since Eleanor's scandalous marriage and even more scandalous death, he had put an incredible amount of effort into restoring the Crandall family reputation. I kept this in mind as Lydia opened her mouth to speak again.

"I wasn't...I...I didn't mean any disrespect to Eleanor or anyone..." Lydia stammered into the silence that followed Wayne's departure. I could tell from the look on her face that she was truly sorry, although most likely just because she'd embarrassed herself in front of Bruce. "Celia, please, you know I was just, um, joking."

I took a deep breath and clasped my hands together behind my back so that I wouldn't slap her. Drawing on my final reserves of social grace, I said,"I forgive you, Lydia." Then I quickly turned to the bartender and ordered a drink I didn't want to avoid having to talk to anyone.

The hope of witnessing a scene dashed, the other people in the room quickly returned to their conversations. I was still reeling, though. Even five years later the mention of my sister's death brought back a host of unpleasant memories that made my stomach hurt. Only a year apart in age, we had been inseparably close, best friends, since childhood. When she died, I was the one who had gone to the coroner's office to id her body, I was the one who had washed her blood from her infant son's face, and I was the one member of my family who had grieved for her instead of taking the coward's way out and pretending that she had never lived at all. Holding my untouched drink in my hand and recalling Ellie's face, I felt abruptly claustrophobic. The sounds of people talking and laughing pressed in on me from all sides and I knew that if I stayed there much longer I was going to be sick. For decorum's sake I sat as long as I could stand it before mumbling an excuse and rushing out the closest door.

I left in what I hoped was the opposite direction of the way Bruce Wayne had gone. I was nauseous, on the brink of tears and really not up to seeing anyone, let alone someone I had barely ever spoken to before today. Inevitably, though, I ran into him as soon as I turned the corner onto the club's secluded back veranda. He seemed just as startled as I was and equally loathe to have company, but there was no polite way to avoid conversation.

"Cecilia," he said, acknowledging me with a barely perceptible nod.

"Bruce," I replied neutrally, wishing myself anywhere else.

He was leaning with his forearms on the railing, looking out at the Gotham Park Club's vast, manicured grounds. I took up an identical position a few feet away from him, and we stood there awkwardly, not saying anything. I wondered what the chances were of a freak tornado touching down and carrying him off so I could be alone with my thoughts. Slim, I decided, as it was a dazzlingly sunny fall day. I snuck a glance at Wayne and was suddenly very aware of how handsome he looked in profile. I was so caught up with being a mother to Jackson and managing the Crandall trust that I very rarely had time to think about romantic entanglements, but I would have had to have been blind not to be aware of how attractive the man standing next to me was. I was close enough to him that I could smell the scent of his cologne mingled with sweat; involuntarily, I inhaled it and briefly entertained some thoughts that made me blush. Afraid he could read my mind, I cast around for something to say. "I'm, um, I'm sorry about Lydia, about what happened back there. She..." I began.

He cut me off with a pained look on his face. "Don't. Everyone in this city is so eager to offer their apologies," he said darkly, "But apologizing changes nothing."

The bitterness in his voice belied a depth of emotion that I had never associated with Wayne's playboy persona. I got the distinct feeling that he was referring to something else besides Lydia's comment. Unsure how to respond, I gave a noncommittal, "Maybe not."

He pressed the issue. "Would you be satisfied if the man who killed your sister apologized to you?" He demanded, his dark green eyes meeting mine intently.

The bluntness of the question startled me into answering honestly and without pretense. "No." Thought the specifics were mercifully unknown to me, I had extrapolated the general scenario of Eleanor's death from Jack's appearance on the night of the murder. I could not imagine accepting an apology from the men responsible. "I wouldn't be satisfied. I would still want justice." I said softly.

Bruce gave a snort of humorless laughter and smiled unkindly at me. "Justice," he said, making a face as if the word tasted bad in his mouth. Apparently, he was determined to contradict anything I said. "How charmingly idealistic of you, Ms. Crandall."

He seemed about to say more, but abruptly seemed to change his mind. Composing himself and pasting an obviously false smile on his face, he said, almost mockingly, "I apologize. As I'm sure you've heard, a...close childhood friend of mine passed away recently and I'm still feeling a bit torn up over it."

I knew who he was talking about. Everyone in Gotham was familiar with the grizzly fate that had befallen Rachel Dawes. Rumor had it they'd been lovers, although I found it doubtful considering how different she was from the bimbettes he generally surrounded himself with. Still, they had at least been good friends, and I felt sorry for him even as I grew more annoyed with his high-handed bitterness. "I'm well aware that tragic things happen in Gotham," I said, a little sharply, "But that doesn't mean we have to give up our ideals. As long as there are men like Harvey Dent and Batman, I think there's still room for hope and maybe even justice."

"Dent is dead. And Batman, well..." He laughed hollowly. "Do you really believe he's a hero? That he's selflessly running around out there taking the law into his own hands and righting all our wrongs?" His tone was patronizing, and I bristled at it.

Meeting his harsh gaze, I answered levelly,"I do. The question is why don't you?"

"Because Batman wasn't there when Rachel died!" he snapped; for a second his face was filled with anguish. Without thinking, I put a hand on his arm, wanting to comfort him. It was surprisingly muscular for the arm of a dilettante. For a moment neither of us moved, then, taking a breath and clenching his jaw, he jerked away from me and we stood once more at the railing in silence. Beneath us, some children were floating toy boats in one of the fountains as their teenage au pairs giggled on a nearby bench. A crisp breeze filled the sails of the boats and carried their shouts and laughter up to us. I longed to be a part of the idyllic scene, but I was trapped on this balcony with Wayne, on the outside of their happiness, looking in. I wondered if he felt the same way. I had the urge to ask, but when he looked at me next all traces of vulnerability were gone and his expression was cold.

Once more flashing his false smile at me, he said,"It's been lovely, Ms. Crandall, but I'm expected elsewhere. Multi-billion dollar companies don't run themselves, unfortunately. Good evening." Before I could say anything else, he had turned on his heel and disappeared, leaving me alone to rage at his arrogant dismissal. I had briefly entertained the idea that there was something more to Bruce Wayne than his playboy image let on, but, although his grief made him more human, I concluded he was still a consummate ass.

* * *

The next evening, I was sitting down to channel surf while Jackson was at his playgroup when the Joker strode into my house.

"Hon-eeeeeey, I'm hoooooome," He announced himself in a grating shout and my heart sank. He rarely ever came twice in a week and when he did it took an immense amount of forbearance to put up with him.

He promptly appeared in the living room, brandishing a chicken leg that he had scavenged from my fridge. Taking a bite, he wrinkled up his nose and spat it back out onto the floor while contorting his mouth and tongue. "Just a little bit _dry_ for my tastes, Ceeelia. You should really work on that."

Ignoring the disgusting lump of chewed up chicken, I informed him, "Jackson's not here, he has playgroup on Fridays. He won't be home for an hour."

A dark look passed over the Joker's face as he received this bit of information. I hoped against hope that he would be annoyed, threaten me with a knife a little, and then leave me blissfully alone. The yearly tax audit of the Crandall Trust was coming up and I had been busy preparing all week apart from my afternoon at the Club, which hadn't exactly qualified as relaxing. I was desperately in need of some time to unwind.

Unfortunately, Jack recognized that this would be a golden opportunity to hassle me. "Well, I sup-_pose _we'll just have to have a little quality brother and sister bonding time, then, _won't_ we Ceeelia," he crowed, flopping down on the couch next to me and placing his feet on my lap. His shoes smelled absolutely atrocious and the cuffs of his pants were stained with something dark that I could only imagine was blood. As I found myself doing so often in my dealings with him, I looked away before I could dwell on it. "Soooooo, are you seeing anyone these days, _sissssy_?"

"No," I said, resigning myself to his needling. Sitting there being questioned about my sex life by a man who spent his spare time blowing things up while dressed as a clown, I realized my life had passed entirely into the realm of the absurd. The worst part was that I was developing a tolerance for Jack and his irritating behavior; like it or not, he was inextricably linked to the two people I loved most in the world. As he was so fond of reminding me, he was family.

"Don't lie to me, Celia, I ab-so-lutely _hate_ liars." With a grin and an admonishing finger waggle, he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and presented it to me with a sly look. I unfolded it and my jaw dropped; there, on the first page of _Gotham Gossip_ was a photo of me and Bruce Wayne alone on the balcony at the Gotham Park Club. They'd caught us just as I'd laid my hand on his arm, and the angle of the photograph made it look as if we were on the verge of making out. Underneath it a caption read "_Working hard or hardly working? Wayne Enterprises scion Bruce Wayne takes time out of his busy schedule to canoodle with reclusive socialite Cecilia Crandall." _

"That looks a little _sus-picious_, to me, Ceecee." Jack finished with a gleeful shake of his head. "'_Fess_ up!"

I buried my head in my hands and groaned. "I'm going to kill someone."

"Your wish is my command, princess," Jack said, "Because, you know, I can't have our, uh, _family honor_ tarnished by such terrible rumors. As your brother, it's my duty to protect the, heheh, the delicate flower of your womanhood, Ceeeeelia. Even if it comes down to murder!" He cackled, clearly entertained by how upset I was.

"I didn't mean it that way and you know it!" I snapped, already at the end of my leash. His playful moods were sometimes more wearing than his murderous, threatening ones. Of course, it was nearly impossible to differentiate between them anyway. "And there is nothing going on between me and Bruce Wayne."

"Hmmmm, me thinks the _lady_ doth _protest_ too much." Jack's eyes darkened; even without the makeup on, his scarred face could be terrifying. A knife appeared in his hands and he gestured with it as he spoke. "Maybe I'll just take a quick jaunt over to Wayne Industries and give Brucie a, uh, little scare. Introduce him to some of my, hmhm, little _friends._ Take a _stab_ at getting to know him!"

He punctuated this offer by slamming the fist with the knife into one of the couch pillows with such force that it shook the entire sofa. I jumped and he sputtered with laughter. "Would you like that, _Ceecee_? Should I do it, _sis_?"

I regarded him as steadily as I could, having learned a long time ago that showing any sign of weakness would only encourage him. "I don't care, Jack. Honestly."

He narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously for a second, then pulled the knife out of the pillow, shrugged, and began to clean the dirt from under his yellowed nails onto the floor, apparently signalling the end of the conversation. Relieved, I picked up the remote and began surfing channels. This proved a suitable distraction.

"Television," Jack said, shuddering the way a normal person might at a cockroach or rat. "How ab-so-lutely _derivative_. All these _reality_ shows, as if people's _path-etic _little lives are worth something. As if there's more than one, just _one_, bad day standing between _reality_ and _insanity_."

"Uh huh," I said, trying to ignore the spiel I'd heard at least a hundred times.

He smiled at me, his face illuminated in the eery light of the screen. "You may ignore me now, _CeeCee_" he said with a lilt, "But someday you'll listen. Hm, you'll see."

For the first time that night, I felt genuine fear. Jack and I had long since reached an uneasy detente when it came to our involvement with each other; he wanted to get to know his son, but was in no position to deal with "boring" things like schooling, health insurance, and the like, and I wanted to do whatever was necessary to protect Jackson. The fact was, despite all the strikes against Jack, I could tell that in his strange way he cared for Jackson. Perhaps it was just an outgrowth of his lunatic's narcissism or maybe some deeply buried aspect of remaining humanity, but I was forced to concede that there was more harm in denying Jack the visits than there was in allowing them. But, deep down, I also knew that the current situation could never last, that Jack could never be satisfied with stability in any form, and I was certain that he was already planning for the day when it would be my sanity on the chopping block.

I shoved these hopeless thoughts aside and forced myself to focus on the task at hand. On a hunch, I flipped to an on-demand episode of _Dexter_. Jack was sucked in by the gory opening scenes, and, for the first time I could remember, he was silent though he continued to fidget with his switch blade as we watched. I was also fully engrossed, empathizing more than a little with poor Rita, who had no idea that her lover was a serial killer; I found myself wishing wryly that Jack was half as endearing a psychopath as Dexter.

Finally, the door bell rang, and Elizabeth dropped Jackson off. Unlike me, he was delighted to learn that "Uncle Jack" had stopped by again; the two of them got along famously and both derived great pleasure from their play dates. Considering that the Joker was infamous for his childish love of games and gags, I supposed it wasn't so shocking he was good with his own child. I wasn't sure exactly what they did when they spent time together - I generally left them alone, as I knew that my presence made Jack tense and that I was helpless to prevent him from doing whatever he wanted no matter where I was in the house - but I knew that it involved a lot of running, shouting and fake sword fighting. Tonight was no different; I gave them some sandwiches and goldfish crackers and sent them off to wreak terror on the rest of the house while I holed up in the office and pored over the financial documentation of the Crandall Trust.

Around eight thirty, I headed down to announce bedtime. As soon as I opened the playroom door, Jackson started jumping up and down to get my attention.

"Mommy! Mommy! We decided what we want to be for Halloween!"

Jack had an enormous grin on his face and I braced myself for the worst. "What do you want to be, sweetie?"

In unison, Jack and Jackson chorused, "Batman!" And then broke down into fits of giggles. Against my will I found myself laughing a little too. As macabre as it was, I couldn't help but see the humor in the situation.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: This chapter is a bit on the shorter, fluffier side because I didn't want to have split up the next one into awkward parts. Action on the way, I promise! Thanks to everyone who has been reading and to everyone who has left me a review!  
**

* * *

I was in the middle of a deep, dreamless sleep when the insistent ringing of my phone jolted me awake at 6:30 am. Bleary eyed and blind in the half darkness, I stretched out a hand to grab the receiver and missed, knocking it off the bedside table. I rolled after it in a panic, certain that a call this early meant some kind of grizzly family emergency.

"Hello?" I answered frantically once I had gotten a hold of the phone.

"Cecilia! Oh my god, I just heard!" It was Tori.

"What? You heard what?" My heart began to race as I imagined the various catastrophic events she could be referring to.

"About you and Bruce Wayne, in _Gotham Gossip_! I can't believe you didn't tell me what happened. Did you think I'd be jealous? I mean, I am, but just because he's so hot! I'm so happy for you!"

"Tori," I interjected, stemming the flood of cheer and exclamation points. "Just to get things straight, it's six in the morning. It's dark outside. And you're calling me to chat about Bruce Wayne?"

"I just finished my morning spinning class," Tori informed me in a chipper tone. My friendship with Tori was a textbook example of opposites attracting. A wonderful illustration of this was the fact that she got up every day at five am to spend time at the gym, while I would happily sleep until noon if given the chance and had spent months thinking that "spinning" had something to do with making sweaters before Tori explained to me that it was indoor cycling.

"You're disgusting," I told her, smothering a yawn. "And I hate to disappoint you, but nothing happened between me and Bruce Wayne."

"Then how come I'm holding a photo of you caressing his arm?"

"We ran into each other on the deck at the club and got ambushed by some photographers at a bad moment," I replied, already sick to death of talking about it.

"No way, Cee. I refuse to believe that any moment spent with your hands all over Bruce Wayne could be a bad one," she teased.

"Trust me, it was bad. And it wasn't "all over" it was just one hand on his arm. Briefly."

"Because..." She prompted, clearly unsatisfied.

"Because it was horribly awkward, Lydia had just brought up Ellie and Bruce Wayne is a pompous asshole," I said succinctly.

"No! Not why was it bad, why was your hand on his arm?" She demanded impatiently.

Always a cranky morning person, I was not at all in the mood to suffer an interrogation over something that hadn't even happened. My voice was sharp as I replied, "It just was. And it was nothing. Bruce Wayne is a shallow, arrogant prick and hell will freeze over before I try to put the moves on him."

"Calm down, Celia, I get it. Consider the subject dropped," Tori said, her sunny disposition apparently unshaken by my outburst. "Want to do lunch?"

My voice was still a bit petulant as I replied, "I can't. I'm having a business lunch with Phil." My older brother, Phil aka Phillip Kensington Crandall III, and I were forced to socialize with one another much more than either of us cared for due to our mutual involvement in the family charity. Phil was fifteen years my senior, married to a woman four years my junior and his only two interests were himself and his money.

"Ew. Is he at least taking you somewhere nice?" Tori asked. She had disliked Phil intensely ever since he had hit on her at my sweet sixteen party.

"Pastiche." A beat. "And yes, I know Bruce Wayne owns it; it's a total coincidence. So don't start with me."

She started giggling and after a second I laughed along with her, recognizing how ridiculous I was being about the whole thing.

Feeling better, I said, "You know what, Tori?"

"What, Celia?"

"He's insanely buff."

"Who is?" She asked, feigning ignorance. "Phil?"

And with that we were cracking up for the better part of the next hour at the expense of my family members and various mutual friends. When we hung up, I was in a good mood despite having been woken up a few hours earlier than I would have liked. I got Jackson up and fed, sent him to school with Elizabeth and sat down to do some final tweaking of the paperwork I would have to go over with my brother.

The Crandall Trust was our family's charity organization aimed at providing educational scholarships and tutoring to inner city children. The trust had been started by a great uncle of mine around the time it first became fashionable to give money to the poor and had only in recent years become a serious outfit. While Phil and I were co-chairmen of the board, he was interested in the charity only for the public prestige and tax breaks that it garnered him. The actual running of the organization fell on my shoulders; most of the time it was a rewarding job, despite being very difficult.

I got so caught up in the work I was doing that I ended up running late for lunch. I grabbed the first vaguely suitable item of clothing I laid eyes on, a simple white chiffon dress, out of my closet and decided to not even bother with my hair. Catching a glimpse of myself as I ran out the door, I was startled by how young I looked dressed this way. Though I was only twenty-eight, I spent most of my time with older coworkers and the parents of Jackson's friends, and I sometimes forgot that I was years younger than my peers. Depressed by this revelation, I headed to meet Phil with my crankiness renewed.

* * *

When I arrived at Pastiche, I found Phil already sitting down and going over files with a man I'd never met before. He was promptly introduced as Robert Raynor, a college friend of Phil's who worked as a financial planner and just happened to be in town. I was instantly suspicious; ever since a bored tabloid journalist had speculated that Tori and I were lesbian lovers, Phil had been trying to set me up with someone. The men he selected were, without fail, old, boring and unattractive. Raynor, who appeared to be about fifty and was sporting some poorly installed hair plugs, fit the profile perfectly. My suspicions were sharpened as he greeted me with an overly long handshake and a lecherous once over that left me wishing I'd worn a pantsuit and chastity belt.

Lunch wore on for what felt like hours as the three of us scrutinized the financial details of the Trust; though the food was delicious, it wasn't enough to compensate for the boredom. At length, I excused myself to the bathroom to avoid falling asleep at the table. When I returned, Bruce Wayne was seated at the table, deeply engaged in conversation with Phil and Raynor. They had also been joined by an extremely thin and beautiful woman who was doing her best to appear interested in the conversation. For a second, I contemplated fleeing the restaurant. Then Phil spotted me and announced, "Cecilia, finally. You remember Mr. Wayne, of course?"

Too well, I thought ominously. Shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with Bruce Wayne for the second time that week, I felt a sense of deja vu. He appeared perfectly composed without even a hint of the violent emotions he had displayed before present in his expression.

"Miss Crandall," he greeted me in that irritatingly smooth voice of his without skipping a beat. "I don't believe you've met my date, Carolina. She's a Brazilian model."

"I see," I said. As I took the gorgeous girl's thin hand in my own, I recognized her from the ad campaign of a famous lingerie brand. In fact, a twenty foot high version of her breasts had been printed on a billboard facing my office window for months. I smiled inwardly at how foolish it was anyone in Gotham could think that Bruce Wayne was involved with me when he had women like this at his beck and call.

As I tuned in to the conversation, it became apparent the men were discussing horse racing.

"I go to the track as often as possible," Bruce declared, "I find the betting exhilarating."

"Yes," Raynor quickly agreed, clearly a bit dazzled by Gotham's resident celebrity. "I love to play the odds."

"Oh," Bruce gave an imperious wave of his hand, "I can't be bothered with all of that. The math is totally beyond me. I just pick the ones with the best names."

This surprised me. While he had certainly come off as arrogant before, he hadn't seemed stupid. He was doing such a good job of pretending to be a vapid idiot, however, that, if it weren't for the photographic souvenir, I would have seriously wondered if I'd imagined our exchange the day before. Before I could ponder his odd behavior any further, Bruce was talking to me.

"So, Cecilia, your brother tells me that you're having a black tie event to raise money for your trust?"

Phil hadn't filled me in on this bit of information yet and it caught me off guard. I directed a glare at my brother as I replied eloquently, "Uh. Yes? Yes. A black tie event."

"I love a good charity party," Bruce said, clapping his hands together. "Free booze and sexy activist girls, all for a good cause. What's the theme going to be?"

Phil, seeing an opportunity to make an ass out of me, added, "Yes Cecilia, what is the theme going to be?"

I looked around the room desperately for something to inspire me. The first thing I saw was a swallow flying by the window. "Birds." I announced and immediately regretted it as everyone at the table looked at me askance. Against my better judgment, I ran with it. "You know, flamingos, ravens, chickens. Well, maybe not chickens. And bird masks. It's going to be a masquerade."

There was an uncomfortable silence as everyone except Carolina - who I had concluded did not speak English - tried to decide what to say next. Bruce broke the silence diplomatically, "That's very...original. I'm sure it will be great, Crandall parties are always the tops."

Following his cue, Raynor chimed in, "Yes, yes, I love birds. Perhaps I'll have to stay in town a bit longer. If, of course, I'm invited..."

"Of course you're invited, Bob," Phil boomed, "In fact, I'd like to personally invite you to escort my sister. Unless she's surprised me by finding a date already?"

Considering I had only learned about the damn thing two minutes prior, I obviously had not found a date yet.

"It's set then!" Phil said, cheerfully.

I was furious at Phil, but there was no way out now. Humiliated and irate, I buried my nose in a finance binder and tried my best to ignore everyone for the rest of the meal.

* * *

Later, I was in the coat closet getting ready to leave, when a deep voice behind me said, "I heard somewhere that you're not supposed to wear white after Labor Day, Miss Crandall."

I spun around and found Bruce Wayne leaning indolently against the door frame, blocking my exit. The vapid grin from lunch had disappeared and it was replaced by a penetrating stare that was focused sharply on me. I crossed my arms and returned the look with a stony one of my own, refusing to dignify his comment with an answer.

"Relax," he said, one corner of his mouth curling up, "I'm sure that Gotham will forgive a reclusive socialite a little fashion faux pas. Especially considering how well the color suits you."

Against my will, I found myself smiling at both the compliment and the subtle allusion to the _Gotham Gossip_ caption. The smile vanished as I contemplated the man in front of me. This was the third interaction I'd had with Bruce Wayne and each time I'd spoken with him he'd seemed like a different person. From the bitter man on the veranda to the shallow playboy at lunch to the quick-witted charm of the man who was standing here teasing me, I had absolutely no read on which was the real Bruce Wayne. The only thing I could be certain of was that there was more to him than met the eye. Never one to mince words, I demanded, "What exactly are you playing at?"

He played dumb, parodying his persona from lunch. "I don't understand what you mean, Miss Crandall. Does a man who gives a woman a compliment have to be playing games?"

"No, but you certainly are. You may have everyone in there fooled, but I'm on to you, Wayne."

If he was unnerved by my statement, he didn't show it. Instead, his smile widened and he turned my words on me, saying lasciviously, "I hope you _are_ "on" to me, Cecilia. You should give me a call if you can bear to tear yourself away from Mr. Raynor for a night or two."

He leaned forward, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and winked. "The rumor's already been started, I can't see any harm in helping it come true."

Then, in what I was learning was his typical way, he disappeared in a literal blink of the eye, leaving me confused and more than a little intrigued. What the hell _was_ he playing at? It was clear to me that the performance at lunch had been just that: an act. I also had to assume that his flirting was a way of playing to defense to make up for the genuine vulnerability he'd shown the other day. A keep your enemies closer than your friends sort of thing. But what could he possibly be hiding that required such an elaborate cover up?

My curiosity was piqued and I was determined to satisfy it. Maybe I just would give him that call; after all, if he wasn't above using sex as a tool of misdirection, why should I be?

Somewhere far away, a group of devils were digging through their closets for sweaters.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: First fluff, now angst! Change of scenery from the upper crust to the inner city and Joker gets a chapter all to himself, just the way he likes it. Be warned, this one gets a bit rough. Enjoy and pretty please review! I really want to know what everyone thinks!**

* * *

As soon as I had made up my mind to investigate Bruce Wayne, he disappeared from my life as abruptly as he'd intruded. The next couple of weeks were almost entirely uneventful. The audit of the trust went smoothly, Jackson settled into first grade and September blended seamlessly into October. Even Jack kept a low profile, showing up only once on his best behavior albeit with a cat in the cream look on his face that led me to believe he had some gruesome plan simmering on a back burner. Now that I recognized it, I felt restless with the sterility of my life but wasn't quite sure what to do about it; I had created a cage for myself and had forgotten to provide a key. This was the sort of melodramatic thought that I entertained as I waited for something, anything to happen that would remind me of how to be the person I had been before I had retreated into work and motherhood.

The calm before the storm ended in a way that was becoming all too familiar: with me being woken suddenly by a noise in the night. Except this time instead of the phone it was the sound of my bedroom balcony door slamming shut in the wind. I chill ran down my spine as I distinctly recalled closing and locking it the night before. I leaned towards the door, trying to discern any signs of movement but saw nothing.

"Hello?" I called, "Jack?"

"Over here," a strange voice said a few inches away from my ear. A hand clamped over my mouth just as I started to scream.

* * *

Minutes later I found myself sitting in the passenger seat of a battered van being driven by a garden variety thug. My hands were tied together and there was a piece of duct tape covering my mouth. Although I had initially been scared out of my wits, the man who had kidnapped me hadn't so much as threatened me yet. He'd hurried me out of the house at gunpoint as I cowered in terror and then...nothing. All he'd managed to do so far was bore me to death by talking about his recent break up. Although I wasn't overly concerned for my own physical safety at this point, I was going crazy thinking of Jackson at home alone. Sometimes he had nightmares and I couldn't imagine what he'd do if he woke up and couldn't find me. I felt tears of anxiety welling in my eyes at the thought of a look of abandonment on his small face. I took the deepest breaths I could through my nose trying to dispel the thought. Meanwhile, the driver prattled on.

"And ya know, Angie, she just don't get me. I love that bitch, but I swear she's batshit insane. I go to the bar, she gets mad at me for ignoring her. I stay home, she needs space. What is it with women? It's like they speak a different fuckin' language. Pardon me, ma'am, friggin."

The entire kidnapping was seeming more like a bad therapy session by the minute. I was unimpressed. In fact, it was a good thing I had the tape on my mouth because if I could have talked I would have told him not to quit his day job.

"And of course, the boss, he don't get it neither. He's not into girls...not funny or anything, mind you, but just, I guess, married to crime. And I respect that, but he don't seem to know that a guy with a girl can't work the night shift every day. Course there's no way in hell I'd ever ask him for a day off. He's got quite a temper on him. Probably kill me just for askin'." This last was said with an uncertain grin, as if the driver wasn't sure whether or not he was joking.

His mention of the boss gave me something to go on, at least. It sounded like the mob. Then again, I couldn't imagine what they could want from me beside money and we were driving away from my house and assets at top speed. Some other criminal organization, then. My only tie to crime was the obvious one: Jack. But after the events of last year I doubted there was a single outlaw in Gotham willing to cross the Joker. It must be random, maybe a gambler with a debt to pay looking for a ransom. How much money would Phil pay for me?

Not wanting to speculate, I stared out the window. It was around three am and there was no one else on the road. We were headed south of the city through a series of neighborhoods that were collectively referred to just as "the slums", places I'd only ever seen in pictures. We drove through endless rows of houses, some boarded up and abandoned, some that looked occupied but dilapidated. Then we drove through some housing projects, sprawling brick buildings covered in graffiti. I saw groups of shadowy figures sitting on the steps and at one point a toddler ran out towards the van. The further we went the more eerily deserted and run down the city around us became, as if it were a parallel universe version of the Gotham that I lived in.

At length we pulled over at a seemingly random point on a block of abandoned row houses. These were in even worse condition than the ones before. Many were just empty shells with gaping open doors and windows; some even had portions of the facade missing so that you could see the gutted interiors. My kidnapper ushered me out of the car into the unnatural silence of the night without saying anything. Grabbing onto the rope that bound my hands, he led me up a set of stairs through an empty door frame. Inside the darkness was deeper; even once my eyes had adjusted I couldn't make out anything besides vague outlines. I heard the sound of things scuttling too close by for comfort and I grabbed my captor's sleeve, praying that he wouldn't leave me alone in this nightmare.

He continued to walk forward without so much as a penlight to guide him; apparently he knew where he was going. We made our way through crumbling walls and over piles of debris that crunched and yielded unpleasantly under my feet. At last we stopped in front of a wall. The thug raised his hand and rapped twice on what I assumed was a door. My suspicion was confirmed as the door opened outward, spilling out a blinding slice of light.

"No one saw you come?"a harsh whisper demanded.

"No, boss. I swear on my mother's grave," the thug replied, fear clearly audible in his voice.

"Good." Then there was a quick flurry of movement and the thug made a gurgling noise and keeled over. Stabbed, I realized.

For a moment I stood shaking uncontrollably in the darkness, afraid I would faint. Then the door opened all the way and I drew my breath in sharply, startled.

"Ceeeeeelia," The Joker greeted me with a little bow and a flourish, "Welcome to my, heheh, _humble_ abode. Not so, uh, cozy as yours, I'm afraid, but it serves it's purpose."

He bent down and peered at the thug who was still making little moaning sounds. "Gut shot," he said, shaking his head solemnly as if he were a doctor appraising a patient, "Terribly painful."

With a final kick to the poor man's side he beckoned me into the light of the room. Relieved as I was to be out of the darkness, I was still repelled by the fetid concrete cube I found myself in. It was about ten feet square without a single window and the only furnishings were a stained mattress and a bare light bulb. On the far wall, a smattering of roaches complimented the last remnants of peeling paint. I turned my attention to the Joker who was standing in such a way that he cast an enormous and menacing shadow on the wall behind him. He was in full regalia, garish plum suit with kelly green accouterments and haphazard grease paint. At last, the tables were turned, I realized; he was in his element and I was the one trespassing.

I moved my lips to say something, but only got as far as "Wh..." before I found myself dry heaving in the corner.

The Joker made a noise of disgust. "This is no time for your foolishness, woman," he snapped, "I need your help!"

Standing shakily and wiping my mouth on my pajama sleeve, I turned to look at him. For the first time I truly saw him for what he was. I couldn't believe that I had felt complacent in his presence, had laughed him off as a mild nuisance for so long; he was a killer, a rabid man without the capability for compassion or regret. And I'd put myself at his mercy.

"Jackson," I managed to choke out.

"My men are watching the house," he drawled, now amused by my terror.

"Are," I swallowed as my stomach flipped again, "Are you going to kill me?"

He laughed, a screeching nails on slate sound that was absolutely joyless. "You're such a _dah-rama_ queen, Ceecee. Everything is you, you, you."

He narrowed his eyes and slipped off his suit jacket revealing that the entire right side of his emerald shirt was soaked through with blood. Christmas colors, a distant part of my mind observed with desperate humor. "But this is about me," he said, his face contorted with both pain and mirth, "Batsy decided he wanted to play, hm, a little bit rough this evening. Quite, uh, _spirited_, that one."

A fond smile touched his ravaged mouth as he mentioned his arch enemy. Then his tongue flicked across them and erased it. "And what's a Joker to do, Ceeeelia, when he can't even trust his own men not to kill him in his, heh, _diminished_ state? I suppose this is really what family is all about, eh, sissy?"

With that he shed the shirt revealing a deep gash that followed a path up his arm and onto his back. He tossed a packet of surgical thread, needles and rubber gloves at me. "Sew!" he commanded.

Objections flooded my mind. For one thing, this was hardly a sterile environment and there was more than a little risk of infection. On top of that, there was the fact that I'd never sewn a napkin, let alone human flesh. But with a wounded and snarling Joker fixing his glare on me, it didn't seem prudent to do anything beside exactly what he wanted me to do. So I sewed.

The Joker had knocked back some pain pills towards the beginning of the operation and he was lying in a half-delirious heap on the mattress by the time I finished. Between my trembling hands, the still seeping blood and the fact that I had no idea what I was doing, the whole thing had taken about two hours. I was extremely dubious about the quality of the work and I thought I might never use my cramped right hand again, but it was done.

I stood and stretched, recalling my surroundings and realizing that I had no idea what to do now. I shook the Joker until he deigned to look at me out from under one half closed lid. "Bus fare in my coat pocket," he mumbled.

"Bus fare?" I asked, my voice hoarse from lack of sleep, "Are you serious?"

"Never more, princess," he said, with mock regret. "Really not s'posed ta drive. Doc's orders."

Furious and exhausted I felt tears beginning to press at the back of my eyes once again. I was miles from home in a neighborhood worse than a nightmare without a phone or money of any kind, the chance of my being raped and murdered was getting higher by the second and my son was home alone being "protected" by a group of gangsters; if you looked up rock bottom in a dictionary there would have been a picture of me next to it. I rifled through the many pockets of the Joker's suit pocket and found, spread out between several of them, exactly a dollar fifty in change; a Gotham bus two zone trip and not a cent more. Frantic, I continued searching hoping to find anything else remotely helpful. All the while, the Joker watched me, contributing occasional bursts of drugged laughter.

At last, my fingers touched on something. I closed my hand around it and realized that it was the knife he'd used earlier to kill the messenger who'd brought me. I glanced over at the Joker and he looked back steadily with his vacant eyes. He'd obviously known all along that I'd find it.

"Go ahead, do it," he taunted me in a slurred voice, "Put me out of my misery."

I held the knife up in one hand, taking in the drying traces of blood that still glistened on its blade as he watched. My hand was only about a foot and a half from his throat and his reflexes were dulled; I had never held a knife before and I had certainly never stabbed anyone, but it was a night of firsts. If anyone ever found his body or the weapon, I doubted there was a person in Gotham who would accuse me of committing a crime.

His eyes shut slowly and then flicked open again as he fought sleep, trying to stay awake for this crucial exchange. "Come on," he whispered, "Kill me, Eleanor."

The slip unnerved me and I dropped the knife, backing away until I was up against the wall. The tears that had been threatening all night started to flow down my face.

"I was begging," Jack mumbled to himself as he fell asleep, "But she was too weak."

Knowing he was right, I slid down the wall into a crouch, hugged my knees to my face and cried to myself while I waited for dawn.

* * *

The bus trip home went surprisingly smoothly. As it turned out, my blood-stained pajamas and swollen eyes allowed me to blend in with the five a.m. bus crowd perfectly. The driver, no doubt thinking I was a homeless crazy, gave me great directions to a part of the city that I recognized. I was home an hour later, sneaking into my gated neighborhood through the front gate while the security guard snored at his station and hoping to god that none of my neighbors saw me. After being forced to briefly hide from some joggers behind a topiary, I arrived safely at my own house, dazed and still trying to puzzle through the events of the night.

There was a sleek black van parked at the top of my drive and I tensed, but the driver simply saluted me and then drove off. I ran inside - the door had been left unlocked - and went immediately to Jackson's room. He was sound asleep, unaware that anything had happened. The relief I felt was so strong it literally brought me to my knees. Physically and emotionally exhausted, I crawled into bed with him and lay there unable to sleep as I replayed what had happened over and over again in my head. I wished I could go back in time and have another chance, though I doubted that even with a thousand chances I would have the strength to do what needed to be done. And as long as that was true, I knew my weakness would continue to haunt me. The Joker had one over on me now and he didn't seem like the kind of man who passed up a chance to rub victory in his opponent's face.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Thanks so much to everyone who has left me a review! I love to hear from you guys! Stroke my vanity! I'm begging you! Kidding...mostly. This is a bit long for what it is, but I wanted to nail down Le Bruce's character and absolutely could not resist keeping the little snippet at the end because it makes fun of my very favorite fan fiction spelling mistake. I think you'll recognize it when you see it ;) That aside, if anyone has any input on what they'd like to see happen in future chapters I'd welcome the input, as always. I have a rough idea of what's coming, but am still a bit sketchy on how I will get from A to B. Happy reading!**

**-JB**

* * *

Around eight a.m. I realized that Jackson was late for school. I woke him up and hustled him out the door, reluctant to let him go but knowing that I couldn't keep him barricaded in our house for the rest of his childhood. If I gave in to my fear, I would be even more of a prisoner than I already was. I did, however, call Elizabeth and ask her to take him overnight on the off chance that Jack came looking for him. Though I was essentially powerless to stop him, at least this way I'd be alerted before he did anything. As an after thought, I called in sick to work and then curled back up in Jackson's bed and promptly slept until four.

The sun slanting in the bay windows woke me, bathing me in a bright flood of late afternoon light. I opened my eyes slowly, feeling anxious, as if I'd forgotten some pressing matter that needed my attention. Then I realized that the exact opposite was the case: for the first time in years there was nothing I had to do. I was absolutely free of responsibility. Unsure of how to proceed, I rolled lazily out of bed and regarded myself in the full length mirror. I examined my image carefully, trying to find some physical mark left over from the night before; aside from a bit of blood and grime on my pajamas, however, I was entirely unscathed.

A feeling of invincibility set in as I realized what I had survived. I had an urge to take on all of Gotham, to brag about my triumph publicly. In an uncharacteristically social moment, I scrolled through my phone book, searching for someone to call. I tried Tori first, only to learn from her message that she had taken off to Paris for some fashion event. Then I dialed a few acquaintances that I sporadically kept in touch with, but was unable to get a hold of anyone. Determined to get out of my house for a night, I decided to get dressed and head down to the Gotham Park Club.

As I stood in my walk in closet regarding my rows of sensible t-shirts and jeans, my thoughts turned to Batman and the Joker. Presentation was an enormous element of their larger than life personae; their masks and costumes were key elements that allowed them to cross the line from ordinary men into legends. On a whim, I decided that I wanted to make a similar impression. As a woman, I had make up and couture to take the place of grease paint and Kevlar; subtler, but equally effective. Selecting a short but elegant violet silk dress and accenting it with dark eyeliner, I worked until I looked, for once, every inch the heiress that I was.

* * *

I arrived at the club already feeling out of my element and beginning to regret my lack of a plan. Maintaining the illusion of forethought, I strode into the lounge and took a seat at the bar. Ordering a drink, I tried to stave off the threatening feeling of self-consciousness. The room was full of people eating dinner together all of whom seemed to me to be whispering and casting looks in my direction. For a painful half an hour I sat drinking alone, interrupted only by an old ex-boyfriend's mother stopping by to say hello. I was on the verge of leaving the bar when I overheard something that made my hopes rise.

"Good evening, Mr. Wayne," the voice of the host said and in the mirror behind the bar I saw Bruce Wayne's reflection saunter into the lounge.

I felt flustered and willed myself not to turn around and get caught looking. As luck would have it, not much willpower was required. Almost immediately, Wayne made his way directly to the open spot next to me. "Cecilia," he greeted me, as unsurprised as if he'd planned to meet me there. I turned towards him, trying to hide the strength of my pleasure and relief. Taking in my ensemble, he whistled.

"Bruce," I acknowledged him in the calmest voice I could manage. Turning my attention to his appearance, I made a face at what I saw. He was clad in a rumpled suit that probably cost more than my college education, accessorized by unruly hair and the distinct scent of stale sweat masked with too much cologne. He hadn't shaved and I suspected he hadn't slept. His dishevelment stunned me; Wayne's vanity was infamous and he was rarely seen looking anything other than impeccably turned out. Yet here he was. A small voice in the back of my head noted that, counterintuitively, he looked more handsome than usual like this. Quashing it, I forced myself to declare,"You look terrible!"

Despite the fact that we were barely acquaintances, I felt unusually comfortable around Bruce Wayne. Since the last time we'd met, I'd convinced myself that beyond his various affectations he was a man that I could talk to, commiserate with even. Whether or not this impression had any basis in reality was yet to be seen, but I was unable to stop myself from speaking to him as if he were an old friend.

He took the familiarity of my address in stride and scowled at me, the shadows under his eyes making his ordinarily harmless face appear almost menacing. "I wish I could say the same about you," he said with a hint of growl in his voice. His eyes flicked down over my "disguise" and then back up to my face with a look of appreciation.

Pleased, I took on the superior air that seemed a necessary part of my costume. "So what's your excuse?"

He flashed me the hollow, dazzling smile I was coming to think of as "The Grin." "Secret double life as a superhero. It's hell on the complexion."

"Cute," I said, rolling my eyes, "But let's be serious. You kind of smell. And," I gestured at his wrinkled suit, "Ten dollars says that's the same thing you were wearing yesterday."

"You caught me," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "But Miss Crandall, models and drugs won't just do themselves. Someone has to step up to the plate. In fact, I've come to think of the way I spend my nights as sort of a community service."

I was entertained, if slightly appalled. "So you're like, what, the Batman of sex?"

This earned me a deep, genuine laugh. "Something like that," he said, a smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. For a moment, he wore the look of a man who was equal parts mischievous and eager to please. It seemed to me that the smoke and mirrors had parted and I was being granted a glimpse of the man behind the curtain. But before I had a chance to exploit the chink in Wayne's armor, the bartender interrupted to take our order.

"Glenfiddich, neat. The 1965 vintage if you've got it," Wayne ordered, mask falling seamlessly back in place, "And for the lady..." He looked at me inquiringly.

"I'm fine with this," I said, gesturing to my half empty glass. Although it was my first, I rarely ever drank and was already feeling a little giddy.

As the bartender poured his whiskey, Wayne eyed my drink curiously. "What are you drinking?"

"Jameson and gingerale, why?"

"You can tell a lot about a person by what they order at the bar," he said as he savored the first sip from his own glass.

"Oh?" I prompted.

"Whiskey drinkers tend to be stubborn and sophisticated. You take yours with a mixer because you aren't trying to prove anything to anyone," once more The Grin appeared, "And, generally, the less fruit in a woman's glass, the better she is in bed."

I smirked. "So what does your drink say about you?"

Wayne swirled the whiskey around the glass and informed me, "That I'm similarly stubborn and sophisticated, of course," then an odd look crossed his face and he added, "But also that I'm a fop trying make up for my shortcomings."

Startled by this, I frowned, once again confused by his mercurial personality. Although he was one of the most guarded men I had ever met, tonight I got the sense that he wanted to take me in to his confidence. Once again he seemed vulnerable, almost lonely. I began to ask him what he'd meant but he had already looked away and and was making a great effort to look engrossed in whatever was playing on the TV behind the bar. Not wanting to badger him, I also turned my attention to the TV. Quickly, my interest became real instead of feigned; Gotham Cable News was on and the topic was Batman.

A young female anchor who I didn't recognize was onscreen, saying, _"Next we turn our attention closer to home to downtown Gotham where outlaw vigilantes "Batman" and "Joker" once again came to blows last night. The site of the clash was 250 52nd Street, an abandoned warehouse where Assistant District Attorney Rachel Dawes was brutally murdered last year during the high profile spree popularly referred to as "The Joker Killings." Whether or not the location holds any significance is unknown. This was the first time the terrorist known as the Joker has made a public appearance in months, although a recent rash of thefts has been connected back to him tentatively by the Gotham City Police Department. The controversial figure known as the Batman has also kept a low profile lately. He is wanted by the police for the murder of deceased DA Harvey Dent. Commissioner Jim Gordon issued a statement earlier today saying that the police are doing everything in their power to uncover the whereabouts of both men. As always, if you have any information related to these cases please call the GCN crime line right away. Before we go to commercial break, here's some live footage of the incident taken by a man on a nearby rooftop."_

The screen cut away to a blurred video of the two men fighting. The white paint on the Joker's face and the green accents of his costume stood out against the shadows, making him easy to follow; the Batman, clad in black and darker black, was almost impossible to make out. For much of the clip it appeared as if the Joker was attacking an invisible foe. Though the video had been taken from far away and was of poor quality, I could see the Joker's mouth moving as he laughed and chatted to his opponent. At one point, Batman's silhouette took over the screen and when the Joker reappeared there was a dark stain spreading across his shirt that I recognized as blood from the cut that I had stitched hours later. The Joker hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said that Batman had wanted to play rough: there was a furious force to his movements, as if he wanted to smash his opponent to bits rather than just send him running back into the night.

I turned to gauge Bruce's reaction and was startled to see that him focusing on the screen with frightening intensity, his jaw tight with some barely checked emotion. "Bruce," I said in a low voice. "Hey."

After a moment he turned away from the television, although he said nothing; I found myself a bit worried by the ferocity in his eyes. Was it Rachel's death that was troubling him or something more? Though I was no expert I would have sworn that it was not grief but rage that was burning in his dark green gaze. My thoughts were interrupted yet again as an older woman to my left who was holding a dog the size of a football in one hand and a martini in the other screeched, "Can you believe it? Can you _believe_ it? The amount of our tax money the city has gobbled up and those two _freaks_ are still on the street? It's a disgrace!"

The bartender joined in, shaking his head. "It's shameful, ma'am. Shameful. The thing that gets me is they had that Joker character in jail and he got out. Word on the street is the Batman was the one who let him out. Probably a PR stunt to show what a _hero_ he is."

The woman shook her head and gestured with both the hand holding the drink and the hand holding the dog. "If this Bat fellow were such a hero, seems to me he would have killed the Jokester or whatever he's called a long time ago."

I found myself unwittingly going back to earlier that morning, the heft of the knife in my hand, the scent of wet concrete and blood mingling in my nostrils. I'd had the chance to be a hero, too, "But I was weak," I murmured, a black hole of self pity opening up inside me.

"Pardon?" Wayne was still looking at me, the intensity from before still present but a bit dimmed.

"Nothing," I shook my head. Then I asked him earnestly, "Do you think the Batman would be a hero again if he killed the Joker?"

He sighed, running his fingers from his temples back through his tousled hair. "He's an outlaw, Cecilia, he was never a hero," he reproved me. "Do you want an outlaw killing people in the streets while you and your son sleep?"

"One already is," I pointed out. "If Batman can do something to stop the Joker and doesn't, then everyone's blood is on his hands, not just the Joker's."

"You think killing the Joker would end crime in Gotham?" Bruce asked, rising to the debate. For the first time I could hear the traces of his famed world class education in his voice.

I contemplated this for a second, remembering that I more than anyone else in the city knew that the Joker was not a force of nature but a man. And it was Gotham's corruption that had made the Joker what he was, not vice versa. "No," I said sadly, "I suppose he's just a symptom of the problem. On the other hand, cough drops don't cure the flu but we still believe in taking them."

Bruce grinned at me, a lowercase, natural grin. "How long have you waited to use that analogy?" He teased. "Months? Years?"

Indignantly, I swatted him on the arm. "I wouldn't go making fun of others' intelligence when I have at least three witnesses who can attest to the fact that you claim not to understand how probability works. Glass houses, Mr. Wayne."

He settled back in his chair, the darkness that had passed over him gone, and continued to smile smugly.

Mildly annoyed, I reminded him, "You also still owe me ten dollars."

"So I do," he said thoughtfully. "Would you settle for dinner? I'm meeting my CEO, Lucius Fox, at Pastiche tonight and I don't have a date."

I made a face. "I'd prefer not to, I should..." I paused, searching for an excuse. Jackson was staying overnight with Elizabeth, Tori was in Paris and I had absolutely nothing else to do.

"I think you're the only woman in Gotham who could turn me down," Bruce said, not sounding a bit deterred.

"Well, that at least explains why you're asking," I shot back, only half kidding. I found it a bit difficult to believe that he was taking an interest in me, even if it was only friendly so far. "And my answer is the same regardless..."

"Right, you'd prefer not to," his lips twitched. "Who are you, Bartleby the Scrivener?"

My eyebrows shot up. I was completely floored that a man who had more than once been referred to in the media as "the male Paris Hilton" had just referenced classic American literature in casual conversation.

"You know, Cecilia, he starved to death," Bruce said, affecting concern with a twinkle in his eye. "So, one last time, dinner?"

I was speechless.

"Third time's always the charm," he said triumphantly, taking my arm in his and leading me out the door.

* * *

At Pastiche, a valet opened the door of Bruce's brand new Mercedes SLR McLaren and assisted me out of the car as a collection of Gotham's crème de la crème watched with various degrees of envy and disaffection on their faces. A photographer who looked like he was about to cream his pants at his luck snapped a series of shots us we hurried up the stairs into the lobby. The ambiance inside the restaurant was totally transformed from the sedate luxury I'd experienced at lunch. The lavish glass and marble interior glowed softly in the light of hundreds of open flame candelabras and notes of live piano music mingled lightly with the muted sound of silverware against porcelain. Despite having been born with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth, the scene impressed me.

There wasn't a bad seat in the place, but we were seated at the best. An ample window table with a breathtaking view of the city spread out around the harbor and a prime vantage for people watching. As soon as we sat down a train of sycophantic well wishers rushed over. I smiled thinly at them as Bruce chatted, reprising his charming role as the fool. We were well into a course of bread with olive tapenade when an older black man in a well-tailored suit and a jaunty bow tie appeared.

Bruce leapt up, shook his hand vigorously and introduced me. "Lucius, finally! Where in god's name have you been? This is my date, Miss Cecilia Crandall."

"Miss Crandall," Lucius said, shaking my hand cordially and taking the third seat at the table. He had a very fatherly air about him and I felt instantly comfortable in his presence. "I'm sorry I'm late. I've been at city hall in the passport office since seven this morning and I only just got finished."

"Are you taking a vacation?" I inquired politely.

He and Bruce both laughed.

"Lucius doesn't believe in vacation," Bruce informed me.

"Oh, I do," Fox corrected him with an unconvincing scowl, "What I don't believe in is my ability to spend a single day relaxing knowing that you would be acting CEO of Wayne Enterprises. The last time I took a day off, you pulled that stunt with R&D."

Shaking his head at the unrepentant look on Bruce's face, Lucius turned back to me and elaborated, "It's a business trip. To Dubai."

"I suppose you're trying to negotiate a private oil source before the crisis gets any worse?" I asked, looking knowingly from Bruce to Lucius. If Wayne could quote Melville to me, then I sure as hell wasn't going to hesitate to pull out business and economics.

They both looked surprised by my comment, to say the least. Fox recovered first and chuckled. "Well, that solves the mystery of who ended up with the Crandall business sense."

I winced a little, knowing they were referring to Phil's general lack of inspiration when it came to running my family's conglomerate, Crandall Corps. "We had some people in Dubai for essentially the same reason a month or so ago," I informed him. "Apparently the indoor skiing slope is a must see."

"I'll check it out, if I ever get this passport issue sorted out," Lucius said, frowning a little again.

"Come on, Lucius, you have to tell her what the problem is."

"I don't think, Mr. Wayne, that it's necessary -"

Bruce cut him off merrily, "Oh, it's more than necessary. See, when the paperwork was originally submitted to the embassy there was a bit of a translation error. You know, different alphabets, letter transcription issues, that sort of thing. So, for the purposes of the United Arab Emirates, you are looking at..." he started chuckling and stopped to catch his breath.

Lucius glowered at him, although I could tell that underneath it he was also entertained.

"Luscious," Bruce choked out between howls of laughter, "Luscious Fox."

The rest of dinner flew by as the two of them tried to one up each other with increasingly hilarious anecdotes, spurred by glasses of expensive wine. Sitting at the best table in the most elegant restaurant in Gotham being treated as a friend by two wonderful men, I felt like I was in an alternate reality. For the first time I could remember, the loneliness that I had felt since my sister's death was truly eased. I wanted dinner to last forever, but of course it couldn't. Around ten, Lucius excused himself regretfully, saying that his wife would be waiting up for him. I could tell from the look on Bruce's face that he shared my desire to stretch the evening out longer. He seemed more at ease then I could ever recall having seen him and I knew that I was close to learning a bit about what made the eccentric man tick. As we sat there joking, he leaned towards me with an earnest look on his face and opened his mouth to say something. Then all of a sudden his phone rang. He glanced at the number and swore.

"I have to go," he said, standing. There was an agonizingly torn look on his face, but his voice was firm. "I...goddammit. I'm sorry Cecilia. Can I call you?"

Before I could even tell him no, he took off into the crowd at a breakneck pace and disappeared. And, just like that, I ended the night as I had begun it, utterly alone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: This chapter got a bit out of hand in terms of length. Hopefully that's a good thing! Thanks so much to everyone who left me such lovely reviews. It's so much easier to write more when you know you're not the only one enjoying it. You guys are the best! Anyway, a bit of comic relief here before things get sinister...**

* * *

Having been thoroughly humiliated by Bruce Wayne in front of almost every person I knew in Gotham, I fled Pastiche as fast as my ridiculous designer heels would carry me. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite fast enough. I was only half way to the door when Lydia Rochester spotted me and flagged me down with an excited wave. My heart sank; could this night get any worse?

"Celia!" She had clearly been drinking and her saccharine voice was louder and more irritating than usual. "How have you been, CeeCee?"

She gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek then glanced at my dress and smiled superciliously. "I love the dress. That style was so hot last season."

"Thanks," I gritted out, trying to pretend her compliment had not been a poorly veiled insult.

"I saw that you were here with Bruce Wayne," she purred. "He left sort of suddenly."

"It was a business emergency," I lied.

"I'm sure it was," she said, a malicious look coming into her eye. "You know, I wouldn't say anything if we weren't such good friends, but I saw him out last night with that Russian girl he used to see. The prima ballerina?"

"I don't recall her," I lied again, knowing exactly who she was talking about.

"Natascha, that tall, striking blond? She's only twenty two. Very thin. You really have to be if you're a dancer - I know because I used to dance myself. In fact, I believe she's in town doing some modelling for Gotham Fashion Week." Lydia stopped singing the woman's praises for a moment to take a sip from the glass of red wine she was holding.

"That's...nice," I said. Despite being fully aware that Lydia was trying to get under my skin, I found myself feeling insecure. Lydia was an expert at tearing others down and she had wasted no time in raising the question that I myself had been wondering all evening. Specifically, why _was_ Bruce Wayne wasting time with me when he had a host of professionally beautiful women waiting in the wings?

Lydia giggled a little, touching my arm as if to reassure me. "I'm sure you have nothing to worry about, Celia, you look absolutely wonderful for your age."

For my age? Seriously? Lydia's comment offended a sense of vanity I'd never known I possessed. I might not be a model or an actress, but I'd never had anyone complain about my looks or, for that matter, my age. For godsakes, I still got carded at bars. Before I could come up with a snappy retort, Lydia spoke again. "I have to be going, CeeCee," she leaned in conspiratorially, "I have a date with a city councilman. So many handsome men to choose from and I just can't find one who's good enough for me."

"It must be difficult," I said in a barely civil tone, biting my tongue to keep from adding that I had a certain widowed brother-in-law who would suit her perfectly. As she once again moved to give me a tipsy kiss on the cheek, my eyes flicked from her pale blue dress to the glass of wine in her hand. The obvious evil thought took hold in my mind and, even as I told myself that I shouldn't, I pretended to clumsily stumble against her arm. In slow motion, I watched the glass tip back, teeter for a moment, then splatter its contents across the expensive satin of her dress before shattering on the marble floor. A look of horror spread across Lydia's face and she shrieked as if I'd slapped her.

I backed away, unable to entirely hide my satisfied smile. "Oh, I'm _so_ sorry, Lydia. That was so _clumsy_ of me."

She stood there speechless with anger as the dark stain spread across the fabric. Once again everyone around us was staring, although there was considerably more for them to see this time around.

"Good luck on your date," I said cheerfully, smiling for the audience, then I turned and escaped out the door. As petty as it had been, I felt immensely satisfied.

I strode out the door with more than a bit of a flounce in my gait. For the first time all night, I felt as if I were truly doing justice to the bratty altar ego that I had dressed myself up as for the evening. Instead of mild mannered CeeCee Crandall, devoted mother and hard-working philanthropist, tonight I was moonlighting as reclusive socialite Cecilia, tipsy as hell after having been wined and dined by Gotham's most wanted bachelor and reveling in the cruel humiliation of my arch-rival. I was sure to make tomorrow's papers and Phil was not going to like it. But tonight I didn't care. As I walked down the steps, a smile broke through the haughty expression that I had engineered and I found myself unable to stop grinning. A valet approached me and inquired as to whether I needed a car.

"Whatever the most luxurious vehicle you can scare up on short notice is, that's what I want," I informed him grandiosely. "Charge it to Mr. Bruce Wayne. And give yourself a two hundred dollar tip. He's feeling generous this evening."

His eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas, the valet raced off to fulfill my request. Perhaps money couldn't buy happiness, I philosophized to myself, but it certainly could get you thirty minutes in a stretch hummer and an all you can eat buffet full of revenge.

As the absurd vehicle pulled up to the curb and the valet opened the door while thanking me profusely, a man came running up to me out of the shadows.

"Miss Crandall, Miss Crandall!" It was the same photographer who had caught me on my way into the restaurant. "How does it feel to have Bruce Wayne walk out on you in the middle of dinner?"

My only reply was a raised middle finger as I slammed the door in his face.

* * *

The next morning I woke up with a terrible headache and an unsettled stomach. A hangover, I realized, recalling the foreign feeling from my seemingly distant youth. I made a beeline for the aleve and headed downstairs to brew myself an immense pot of coffee. By the time that Elizabeth knocked on the door to drop Jackson off, I was in much better shape.

"Mommy!" he called, running into the kitchen and slamming against my legs full force in a big hug.

"Little Jackson," I said, picking him up and giving him a kiss. "I missed you!"

"I missed you too, Mommy," he said, squirming out of my arms. Running back to Elizabeth, he grabbed a piece of paper out of her hands. "Look at the picture that I colored!"

He was a reasonably good artist for a six year old and my admiration of his drawing wasn't only parental pride. "Is that Batman?" I asked, smiling.

"Yeah. And that's me and I'm also dressed up like Batman and that's you and that's Uncle Jack, and we're all having a picnic!"

"It's really good, Jackson, let's put it on the fridge," I said, entertained that the fantasy my son had portrayed was probably the worst nightmare of most families in Gotham, "Do you still want to be Batman for Halloween?"

"Uh huh," he said nodding seriously, "And Uncle Jack said he'd come over to take me trick-or-treating and that he was going to be Batman, too. Uncle Jack says he knows Batman, Mom. Do you think that's true?"

"Uh. No, I think he's just kidding," I said, always unsure how to deal with moments when facts about Jack's "personal life" came up with Jackson. I hated to lie to my son, but the last thing I wanted was for him to tell someone who would listen and connect the dots that he regularly spent time with the Joker. Talk about alerting child services.

I turned to Elizabeth and handed her a check I'd already made out. "Thank you so much, Liz, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

"No problem, Cecilia," she said, ruffling Jackson's hair, "I always say I have the best job anyone can have."

Shaking my head at her cheerful tolerance. I walked her to the door and we chatted a bit before she left.

Just as I'd closed the door behind her, my son called, "Mommy, mommy, you're famous!"

He rounded the corner brandishing the latest _Gotham Gossip_. A censored picture of me flipping off the photographer while getting into a stretch hummer was inset on the cover. The caption underneath read "_Crandall Heiress Snubbed at Local Hot Spot_." I took the magazine from Jackson with a rueful smile and braced myself to discover exactly what the press thought I had been up to the night before.

* * *

A week later, Bruce Wayne had still not made good on his promise to call me. I wondered if the five hundred dollar car service bill had anything to do with his lack of communication. Most likely not, considering that the tie he'd been wearing at dinner had cost more, but I hoped that I'd at least managed to irritate him with it. The more time that passed, the less excusable I found his behavior. I'd spent a while dwelling on it and had come to the conclusion that I shouldn't be surprised that someone who was infamous for his capricious womanizing had hurt my pride. Fortunately, it had happened before I got involved, the matter of fact portion of my psyche lectured, and my pride was the only thing that had been hurt. Or so I told myself. A more deeply buried, less sensible part of my mind begged to differ, recalling the startlingly intelligent depths of Wayne's eyes as he teased me, the thrill I'd felt as I uncovered the strange nuances of his personality and, of course, how irritatingly handsome he was.

I was only able to spend so much of my time entertaining these thoughts, however, as Halloween was coming up. I spent a hectic week getting Jackson's costume together and helping out with the various school events that came along with the holiday. Before I knew it, the day itself was upon us. In his first ever scheduled visit, Jack appeared, jauntily sporting a Batman costume that matched Jackson's. The two of them proceeded to once again tear apart my entire house as they took turns playing the Gotham version of cowboys and Indians: Batman and Joker. Jack was surprisingly gracious about taking turns being the villain.

Eventually they tired and retreated to the playroom for snacks. From the door of the room, I watched Jack showing Jackson some goofy martial arts moves and I snuck a few photos of the two if them. Jack's head jerked up at the flash and he glared at me. For a second, I was scared that he was going to throw one of his fits, but then he grinned at me and started mugging for the camera.

"Stop right there _cer-im-inal_!" he shouted in his own trademark voice, adding a dramatic flourish of his cape. "I am...the Bat!"

Against my will, I found myself smiling both at his performance and the comic incongruity of the costume. Watching him, I was transported back to the brief time I had known him before Eleanor's death. My parents had disapproved of Jack and Ellie's relationship for a whole host of reasons and, while they hadn't cut her off completely, after the marriage she could no longer afford to live the lifestyle that she had grown up accustomed to. To help her and Jack out, I would have them over to my apartment for dinner on a regular basis. We'd cook together, pass around a bottle of wine and lounge around my living room bullshitting with each other late into the night. Jack had aspired to be a stand up comedian and he would try out various jokes and routines on Ellie and me, keeping us in stitches for hours. Even now, reincarnated as a twisted sociopath, the man was a consummate entertainer.

I tried to reconcile the person who was chasing my son around the living room in a batman costume with the person who I had seen cruelly stab a man to death for absolutely no reason. It was almost impossible; the night that I had spent in the slums of Gotham sewing up the Joker's wound was distant and hazy like a dream, whereas Jack and Jackson were directly in front of me, more concrete than ever. Regardless of how I wanted to feel, I was powerless not to be at least a little happy watching my son play with his father, the three of us acting the way a real family might on Halloween. The rational part of my brain was battling against the nostalgia I felt for those nights with Jack and Ellie and it was losing badly.

I raised the camera to snap a few more pictures but was interrupted by a knock on the front door. Early trick-or-treaters, I assumed. Grabbing a bag of candy, I rushed downstairs to open the door. I swung it open and found not children in costumes but Bruce Wayne in a formal tuxedo standing on my stoop. He was holding a bouquet of black irises - my favorite flower, though I chalked it up to coincidence considering the holiday.

"Hi," he said,

"Hi," I returned, unsure what to say to him. I wasn't particularly pleased with his showing up here now, considering both his impertinence and my present company.

After a pause, he offered me the flowers. "I brought you these."

I took them automatically without looking, still trying to puzzle out exactly what his visit meant. "Thanks."

His face fell a bit at my reaction. "Victoria Harford said they were your favorite."

So it wasn't a coincidence. I smiled a little and said more genuinely, "They are. Thank you," I tilted my head at him. "Why..."

"I owe you an apology for the other night," he admitted, looking me in the eye with that strange intensity he had, "I've been meaning to call but I was here in the Palisades checking up on the renovation of Wayne Manor, so I thought I'd stop by in person. Is it a bad time?"

"Sort of," I said, all too aware of the Joker's presence in my home. "I'm on my way out to take Jackson trick-or-treating."

"Oh, dammit, of course you are. I forgot, thought maybe you'd be going to Mayor Garcia's Halloween party," he shuffled his feet a little, looking out of his element, "You're a good mom," he added a bit awkwardly.

A shadow swept over his face and I imagined that he was recalling the motherless holidays of his own childhood. Before I could offer any comfort, however, a voice came from within the house.

"Ceeeeeelia?" Jack called, immediately followed by the sound of approaching footsteps on the stairs. My heart started racing; clearly he didn't realize that there was someone at the door. If I didn't tread extremely carefully I was going to have a disaster on my hands.

"One second," I yelled back, trying to keep the panic out of my voice, "There's someone here."

Not heeding my warning, he came around the corner and stopped short a ways away from the door. He had shed the Batman mask and was now wearing a light weight black parka with a scarf that came up over his mouth tucked into the collar. With only his hazel eyes and hair showing, he looked shockingly normal. At least, he did until he took in the tableau in front of him and the skin around his eyes creased, indicating the sinister smile below the scarf. Still, he miraculously managed to keep quiet.

Bruce looked at him and the shadow on his face deepened. He regarded Jack for a long minute. During the terrible, gut-wrenching beat he said nothing and I was certain that he'd recognized the Joker's naked face. Then he looked back at me and said stiffly, "I didn't realize you had company."

Jealousy, I thought with relief. It was jealousy, not recognition that had darkened Bruce's expression. Shocking as it was to imagine that Bruce Wayne could be jealous of anyone, I was too busy trying to get a handle on my fear to be flattered by it.

"Company. Yes," I recovered, "Bruce, this is my, um, this is Jack. Jack, this is Bruce." I probably shouldn't have used his real name, but it was done and I figured that Wayne would never make the connection. After all, the freewheeling playboy billionaire hardly seemed like the type to spend his free time scrutinizing the history of every stranger he met trying to ascertain whether or not they were dangerous criminals.

I watched anxiously as Jack stepped forward and they shook hands, neither of them looking very pleased about it. Fortunately, Bruce didn't linger after the introduction.

"Well," he said brusquely, "I've done what I came for. I guess the score's even now." Somehow, I didn't think he was just referring to the flowers.

Regretting the whole situation and wishing there was some way that I could explain myself and ask him to stay, I smiled sadly. "Thanks again."

He shot one last glance at Jack, then, with a slightly devious look on his face he leaned forward and surprised me by brushing a light kiss over my cheek. I barely had a chance to register the feeling of his lips on my skin before it was over and he was disappearing down my front walk. Still, my stomach did a strange little flip and I bit my lip to force back a smile. Closing the door behind him, I contemplated the flowers that he'd brought me until Jack's voice brought me back to the present.

"Well, well, well," Jack drawled. I looked up to see him leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, a nasty, self-satisfied smirk twisting between his scars. "What an _intriguing_ little display of sentimentality."

I wheeled on him, recalling that I was furious. "What were you thinking coming down here like that? He could have recognized you! Are you completely, fucking insa --" Realizing the absurdity of what I was about to say, I threw up my hands and made a violent noise of frustration.

"Insane?" he finished for me, laughing uproariously. "Oh yes, sissy, yes I am!"

"Obviously! If you want to get yourself packed back to Arkham, that's your business, but keep it out of my house. I could go to jail, Jackson could be taken away from me." I stopped yelling to catch my breath.

"Puh-lease," he said, rolling his eyes, clearly unimpressed by my tirade, "Let's get down the _h-heart_ of the issue. Did I _embarrass_ you in front of your little friend, CeeCee? Are you _ashamed_ of your brother? Is it the scars?"

"Jack-"

"_Don't call me that_," he growled, all traces of levity vanishing from his visage in a heartbeat. Then the smile came creeping back as he regarded me steadily, "You, uh, you really don't have a leg to stand on here, Ceeeeeelia. If you were _so_ worried about, heheh, about getting caught, you should have, uh, _severed_ our connection when I gave you the chance."

He slid a knife, _the_ knife, out of one of his myriad pockets and stroked his throat gently with the blade, all the while looking me in the eye. Then he put it away with a singsong, "Bye bye!" as if he were talking to a pet.

"So now," he continued, "Instead of my being stuck _by_ you, you're stuck _with_ me!" He giggled and did a little jig, inordinately pleased by the play on words.

The odd but familiar combination of exasperation mingled with apprehension washed over me, a bit stronger on the former than the latter. I rolled my eyes and brushed past him, calling upstairs for Jackson.

"Let's get this freak show on the road," I muttered.

Jackson ran downstairs, already bouncing off the walls. He was holding a bag so large that he could have fit into it. "Is it time? Is it time?" He demanded jumping up and down.

"It's time," I confirmed.

He grabbed Jack's hand and began to talk excitedly to him, the two of them rushing ahead while I followed on their heels. "Uncle Jack, do you think I'll get a million pieces of candy?"

"Probably. But you should, uh, shoot for two million. _Always_ double down, Jackson," Jack replied seriously.

"Double down," Jackson said, trying the phrase out, "Ok. But what about if we go somewhere and they say "trick" instead of "treat"?"

"Don't worry, I know _lots_ of tricks," the Joker said, cackling a little bit. Jackson laughed along and I gritted my teeth.

"No tricks," I hissed at the back of Jack's head.

He turned around and gave me an enormous grin that promised nothing.

* * *

After exhaustively making the rounds of our immediate neighborhood, we got in the car and I dropped Jackson off at a friend's house where new, untouched fields awaited him. I felt a bit of pity for the mother who had offered to host the annual Halloween sleep over party - I had done it last year and had woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of five sugar crazed little boys having a full on food fight in the middle of my kitchen - mostly, though, I was just glad that it wasn't my turn again.

With Jack still in the passenger seat, I drove home. I was unsure why he was still hanging around - it wasn't as if he had a car parked at my place. I wasn't exactly certain what his transportation situation was, but I'd pieced together that it mostly consisted of using numerous disposable goons and stolen vehicles as a personal taxi service. There had been that one time that he'd shown up in a shriner car, but I discounted that as a one time gimmick.

As we pulled up to the house, he asked. "Mind if I, uh, step inside to freshen up?" he asked in an uncharacteristically mild tone.

"Suit yourself," I said with a shrug, vaguely suspicious of his motives but not really in a position to object.

We walked inside and he dropped some tubes of paint on the kitchen island. He shed the scarf and jacket, revealing the Batman costume underneath. He retrieved the matching cape and cowel from where they lay in a pile on a side table, then, pulling up a chair, set about his task without even bothering to use a mirror. I busied myself washing some dishes so that I could keep an eye on him.

"You know, Ceeeeeelia," Jack said, stroking white paint across the scar on his right cheek thoughtfully, "You did me a favor the other night."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "I guess that's one way of putting it."

He ignored me and continued to put on his white mask. "Yes, quite the, uh, _favor_ indeed. Some might even say that you saved my life. Twice!"

Squeezing a bit of red onto his index finger, he smeared it across his mouth like an adolescent girl putting on lip gloss. Smacking his lips together, he went on. "And I feel that it's my, hmm, _fraternal_ _duty_ to repay your good turn with one of my own."

The final touch was the black over the eyes. As he finished applying it and wiped his hands somewhat fussily on the cape of his Batman costume, I watched his entire demeanor change as if a switch had been flipped. He rolled his neck until it cracked and then turned his full, dreadful attention to me. "That, uh, Wayne character you've been seeing, well, he hardly seems _worthy_ of you, Ceeeelia," the Joker said with a smirk. "He's nothing but an over-sized _child_ and you deserve a _real_ man. And, besides of course yours truly, there's really only one of those in this sorry excuse for a city."

I knit my brows together as I tried to puzzle out his meaning. I hadn't made much progress when he brandished a black hood and, in a lightning fast movement, slipped it over my head.

"I hope you like blind dates, _sissy_," he said between wheezy burst of laughter. Then, guiding me roughly by the arm, he led me back out the door into the night.


End file.
